


Rome, 41 AD

by ceralynn



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 19:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceralynn/pseuds/ceralynn
Summary: Aziraphale remembers what he got up to in Rome after Crowley eventually nipped out, post-temptation.





	Rome, 41 AD

It's a very normal day, post-Armageddon, when the topic comes up. They're perusing a local bookshop (not Aziraphale's; he likes to survey the wares of others, compare them to his own) when a thick book on the shelf with an allusion to Roman architecture marking the title catches his eye. Aziraphale plucks it from its place, giving a little satisfied smile as he opens it and sees that it has pictures. 

That's only a partial reason for the smile, though, and what's driving it more than anything is memories. Rome in 41 AD, popping over to see what Petronius could really do with oysters. Running into Crowely along the way, the day they'd shared once the demon got over his rotten mood. Rome had been in the absolute thick of hedonism at that time, and Crowley hadn't spared any expense exposing the angel to it all; wine and dinner parties and feeding him grapes by hand while he lounged. To this day, the angel could pinpoint the beginning of his love of all things material to that lovely day, and he didn't regret anything about it.

Including what he'd gotten up to once Crowley completed his temptation and nipped out.

Aziraphale could still remember their conversation about the bath houses.

"You wouldn't like them, Angel."

"Why not? What kind of bath house is it then?"

"A really impure kind. Not the sort of thing an angel ought to know about."

"Crowley, you're being obtuse. I mean, really."

"It's for public sex with strangers. There, that straight enough for you?"

The silence that had followed as Aziraphale dealt with the shock, composed himself, mustered a terse, "Oh, well, yes. Best do well to avoid them, then, yes?"

And Crowley's darling mumbled, "Knew you wouldn't like them."

How wrong he'd been.

"Do you remember Rome, 41 AD?" he asks, flipping through the book idly, offering it enough in Crowley's direction that it could be seen, but Crowley, uninterested in books, doesn't look. 

"Remember you going all the way to Rome for oysters," he muses. "Why?"

"I don't believe I ever told you," Aziraphale starts. "But I ended up getting.. well, curious about those bath houses you mentioned. And that curiosity ended up paying off. Quite a number of times, actually."

Aziraphale waits for a response, and when he doesn't get one, he looks to the demon.

The demon in question is frozen in place, skin beet red, blood trailing of his nose as he stares, unresponsive.

He passes out not long after Aziraphale acknowledges this.

\--

They're in the obligatory coffee shop section of the bookshop when Crowley comes to, Aziraphale offering him a cup of ice chips he refuses. Maybe it'll help regulate his system, somewhat, but there's no adjusting to this. Not in a way that ice chips could meaningfully facilitate. 

"I'm so sorry, darling," Aziraphale offers, the minute Crowley's cognizant enough to hear. "It was never my intention to hurt you, dear. I just wanted to be honest. At the time, I mean, we weren't together in any proper way, I-I just figured—"

"I am not," Crowley says finally. "Upset about you.. metaphorically cheating, or whatever it is you're imagining."

"Oh," he offers. "Oh, well. What does have you upset then?"

"Nothing." Crowley leans back in the wiry coffee shop chair, gives the ice chips a tepid try. "I just imagined you getting the brains fucked out of you by multiple people in a Roman fucking bath house. Forgive me if I can't keep composure in that scenario." 

Aziraphale understands, wiggles at a gentle frequency. "I didn't know it would.. affect you so," he smiles. "Well, you're quite within your rights to make things even. Surely there's some debauchery you can make me privy to?"

Crowley frowns. "There isn't."

And then Aziraphale frowns too. "Really?"

"Really, Angel." He has another go at the ice chips. "Never thought to do that sort of thing with humans. Never really had an interest."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale starts, smile back. "You can be honest. We're hardly in mixed company. And after six thousand years, I wouldn't blame you for looking away, as it were."

"I haven't, Angel," he repeats, almost too nonchalant. "Honest."

"Crowely," he says, edging on stern. "It's almost getting bothersome that you won't acknowledge the truth. Everyone looks! It's fine! It's a rather human thing, isn't it?"

"Human or not, I just don't," Crowley says, lowers his glasses enough to see his angel eye to eye. "Why's it so important to you that I do?"

"Because I look at other people!"

The outburst draws the slightest bit of attention, and Aziraphale keeps quiet until listening ears turn away.

"And if this is the case," he goes on. "That I look at other people, and you don't, well, that means.." 

He sighs, knows what it means but loathes to say it.

"It means that you love me more than I love you."

Crowley pulls a face, makes a few moves not dissimilar to when Aziraphale's spirit left him in the bar.

"Of course I love you more than you love me." 

Aziraphale blinks.

"And you're okay with that?"

"Oh, be realistic, Angel," he scoffs. "If you loved me as much as I loved you, we'd never leave the house. We'd never leave the bedroom."

Aziraphale feels tears brimming in his eyes. He stands, closing the distance created between them by the cafe table and wraps his arms around Crowley's neck, delighted to feel his love's arms around his waist.

"Oh, darling, I do love you."

Crowley savours it; savours the warmth, the solid weight of Aziraphale against him, the line of his body traced against his own, the inevitable voyeurs watching their love story unfold.

He presses a kiss to the crest of Aziraphale's cheek. 

"I know," he croons. "But not as much as I love you."

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I blatantly stole this dialogue from an episode of Malcolm in the Middle. But with how well it fits, like, can you blame me?


End file.
